


3: Occasional Mornings

by bluebirdcastiel



Series: Hunters Who Hunt No More [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, More Fluff, fluffy fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 10:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebirdcastiel/pseuds/bluebirdcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now and again, with no particular forewarning, Castiel will refuse to allow Dean out of bed in the morning.</p><p>Or, part three, in which Dean and Cas embark upon a life without hunting and Sam goes about rehabilitating angels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	3: Occasional Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> {{ part three, more fluff. perhaps I will make it angstier next time? tell me what you think <3 }}

Now and again, with no particular forewarning, Castiel will refuse to allow Dean out of bed in the morning. He will hold on to any part of Dean he can hold, clasping a hand or wrapping around his body so that any attempt to escape is futile. He will kiss Dean good morning, his lips warm and lazy, a glint in his eye that most grumpy fallen mornings do not hold. He will rise from the sheets like he is rising into wakefulness and demand Dean await him in bed. Cas tends to wear tight t-shirts and boxers to sleep and Dean will hum contently at the sight of his skin; Cas stretches himself so that his shirt will rise to reveal slender hips, prominent after all the weight lost since his fall, a gentle little happy trail of soft dark hair from his belly button down to his underwear. Cas will turn on the radio but insist the curtains remain closed, the soft rock station lulling Dean into the morning with only a shadow of the light of day permitted to dance on his skin.

 _“Stay in bed for me, Dean,”_  Castiel will say, ambling away with his curious eyes to prepare his lover breakfast. He’ll smile with affection and inspire a warmth to rise in Dean’s chest at the simplicity of this, how uncomplicated it has become to immerse himself in the beauty of his now fallen, melancholy angel. Dean tends to drift in and out of sleepiness while awaiting Castiel’s return, eventually accepting his coffee with gratitude, kissing Castiel on the mouth as he places toast and jam on the bedside table. Cas will kiss him back, climbing into bed, licking into Dean’s mouth slowly and sleepily, tasting of home and of warmth and of coffee. Dean will run his fingers through eternally ruffled hair, pulling ever so gently so Cas is forced to lean back and meet his eyes. For moments upon moments Dean will gaze into blue. 

They stare so often, for such stretches of time, particularly in their perfect, private moments, just drowning in one another’s affections, the burning love in Castiel’s eyes taking Dean’s breath away in each and every instance. A smile will grace Dean’s face that is warm and genuine, the adorable expression Cas wears around his stare inspiring an unceasing urge to squeeze him, bundle him into one’s arms and smile into his skin. As such, Dean will wrap Cas up for a little while, holding him against his chest while eating his toast, stroking Cas’s hair while they listen to soft rock; emblems of the outside world merely serving as backdrop as each man is gently floating in the gloopy, melodious  _comfort_  of the room, this deep-set effortlessness with which they exist in each other’s worlds. Breakfast is drawn out and Cas will often fetch himself tea to warm his hands and his belly, placing himself again in Dean’s arms without a word and pressing into Dean’s body, subconsciously attempting to merge them into one so that the fear that is now commonplace will be replaced by their love.

 _“I love you_ ,” he may say, the sentiment conveyed without words anyhow. Dean kisses it into Cas’s hairline, onto his cheek, gentle presses of lips that make the sun pulsate with bliss. 

They sit, the two of them, in their lilting mellow bubble; a man and a fallen angel, hunters who hunt no more. Weeks tumble by and Dean declines Sam’s offers to join him on the job repeatedly, inspiring Sam to ask about it one morning, while he reads the newspaper and Dean cooks them all eggs. Cas sits, opposing Sam at the table, feet flat against the seat of his chair, knees to his chest in his silly plaid pyjamas, gazing into his coffee cup as if it held the depths of a milky cosmos that only he was privy to.

‘Dean, do you realise you haven’t been out on a hunt in almost a month?’ Sam says, and Dean merely shrugs, looks at nothing but the eggs in the pan. ‘Not since you got hurt in Colorado,’ Sam adds, quiet, thoughtful, though not without intent. Over breakfast that morning Sam essentially outs Dean on his not-so-secret plans to bring down Metatron from their library, as they have no conceivable way of doing so anywhere else and his head has been so far from the game when he hunts that he has gotten himself injured more times than he’s ganked anything, recently. Dean is shocked, though pleasantly so, to hear his little brother approve of his desires; Sam tells him defiantly that himself and Garth (along with Garth’s many ‘connections’) have the hoard of bitter flightless angels under control; the matter consists primarily of convincing them to cool it, as they were each running on fear and betrayal and once that was ushered out of them the vast majority were now just _people_. A few of them had hurt people, in their haze of confused devastation, but Am and other hunters in on the back-story had handled it, had locked several away until they had realised themselves to truly be powerless, alone even, thus making havoc wreaking a pointless escapade indeed.  Without a leader or definite orders, they were lost, Castiel would say. Their falling has rendered them bewildered; childlike in their lack of practical knowledge regarding living a ‘real human life’.

Castiel aids their knowledge as best as he can, his millennia of experience proving very useful in the handling of angels and monsters alike, though it pains him to discuss his bothers as if they're mere _things_ , troubled beings that they are attempting to control. Once, they had been infinite and blinding, Cas knew, had been part of it once, in the old days of Heaven. Among his long days of careful skim reading and re-documentation, Dean will comfort him with kisses and home-made ice cream that Cas likes, will read to him and let him watch soppy romantic movies with his ear pressed against Dean’s chest. And on those occasional mornings, those upon which Castiel refuses to allow Dean to get out of bed, Dean will stay and will cuddle and snuggle and all else, for he is many things now, but being the lover of Castiel is still his primary occupation.


End file.
